We met by accident at a party in Los Angeles. The music was so loud that I had to strain to hear what she was saying. She was a tall, dark woman, with an unusual face—a work of art. She wore pink lipstick. She wore a cream silk shirt. She wore a blue skirt with white stripes. I was sure I’d seen her before.

We went down some steps into the garden, and she put some dry sticks on the fire. There was something strange about the way she spoke. She told me her husband was dead, that she was from a traditional Jewish family. She gazed into the fire. The colour suddenly faded from her cheeks.

“Have you ever fired a gun before?”

I stared at her blankly.

“How happy are you with regard to your work?” 

Her bracelets jingled on her thin wrist. We looked at each other in silence. She gave a little smile.

“You really are serious about this, aren’t you?”

She threw a bucket of water on the fire.

“You can reach me at this phone number.”